


Come to rest under the virile vine

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: there's a heartbeat under my skin [5]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, author is sick so naturally sickfic happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: Her eyes keeps getting drawn over the temperature readings. At the word ‘fluctuating’ to be precise.For once she doesn’t like being right. (The amount of times she’s thought this is in the double digits, so really she should give up on this figure of speech. It’s doing her zero favours, and is actually raising the number. Like a jinx.)Or a short fic where Veronica handles her girlfriend getting sick as well as one'd hope





	Come to rest under the virile vine

**Author's Note:**

> When life finally calms enough for me to find time to write, I get sick. The universe truly likes laughing at our plans.
> 
> Title from Miracle of Sound's song, "The Path"

 

She dozed off again.

Legitimately dozed off this time, as people do when they aren’t keeping an eye on their surroundings for every second of every hour. Part of her knows it’s due to Betty’s training, but most of her won’t, she doesn’t think, ever stop being amazed that Betty gets through that with minimal strain. Well, visible strain.

(She’s marvelled – way back when the leaves were still green and the weather allowed for loose dresses and provided excuses aplenty to take her business outside – marvelled at the nuance in Betty’s mask. Veronica has seen plenty of them during her relatively short tenure as a lawyer, but perhaps the closest one for comparison would be Cheryl’s. Or maybe it’s just easier to compare them since she’s had ample opportunity to meet all facets of Cheryl’s mask.

If she were to tell them how many little things they have in common, both of find the news disconcerting.)

Veronica finishes writing her document – a revision of an earlier statement agent Doley made, now with all of the embarrassing information he’s overheard while tapping their target’s phone. She can’t blame him on keeping quiet. Some of these things are… way too kinky than she’d expected from their target.

Veronica looks up as her finger subconsciously signs the document, and her heart swells at the sight of her girlfriend in a tacky orange sweater, head cradled in her hand as if she’s still playing chess against Bianca. The AI has either ignored Betty’s vitals or is humouring her.

Though the sight of the chess pieces battling each other in a very un-chess-like manner makes it clear it’s the latter. The only thing unsurprising is that the black and white queens appear to be having a coffee date atop their rooks while the others battle beneath them. Bianca has definitely raided their movie library.

Just as the black king stomps over his adversary in victory does Betty’s hand slip, and her head lurches forward before she catches herself. The board flickers back to normal, so innocently Veronica snorts.

“What?” Betty grumbles, blinking sleep from her eyes. She’s been doing it a lot today. That and dozing. Veronica’d leave it be, but this is the fourth day that’s happened. Only more frequently than the past three combined.

_She has trouble sleeping. What’s there to worry about?_

“Doley’s been creative in his report,” Veronica says instead. “Don’t suppose it’s too late to cash in on that Hill director?”

It takes Betty a moment to figure out who Veronica’s talking about. So much so Veronica’s ready to elaborate when Betty exhales an _“oh”_ and makes a disgusted face.

“I rather hope so. His movies are third grade at best.”

“Third grade?” Veronica raises her brows, tablet discarded on the pile of books she has next to her spot. With how vehemently Betty pointed out every flaw in his movies, every inconsistency and counted how many times the main actor would’ve died if the movie had an ounce of realism behind it, Betty’s being kind. Too kind.

“One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” Betty moves her knight to stand behind Bianca’s rook.

“He’s not dead.” Veronica squints, tapping her chin. “I don’t think, at least.”

“Not yet.” Betty grins, far too pleased with herself, like she knows something and she’s not planning on telling. Veronica stares at her disbelieving.

“You did _not_ order a hit on him.” She wonders whether Betty has the contacts to do it. Then again, she wouldn’t need them. She’s practically working for a spy network that could very easily let slip that a certain Hill director stepped over some very unsavoury toes –

No Veronica hasn’t imagined that scenario before. Certainly not while forced to speak to the man over a very uncomfortable lunch date.

Betty shrugs and the look is gone. “With his attitude, he’ll either be dead or ruined. In my experience, the latter often leads to the former.” Betty moves to place her bishop, but her fingers hover over the board, eyes blinking rapidly and brows pulled.

“I think you should change the shades on that thing.” Veronica waves her hand at the board once Betty looks up in question. It’s not very far, her spot from the table and couch, but it’s far enough that Veronica can only suspect Betty’s eyes dance around her rather than stay put. “The marble and black can’t be good for your eyesight.”

Veronica’s lips quirk into a smirk. “Especially when you glare holes in it.”

“I concentrate.”

“Of course, darling.”

Betty’s brows furrow into the very same glare, albeit lacking any real heat. “And it’s fine.”

And still she moves her pawn into a position where he’ll be easily taken by Bianca’s queen. From her position, Veronica can’t see any plan that needs this as bait. It’s a rookie mistake. And Betty’s overtaken those mistakes some half year ago.

Silently, Veronica picks up her tablet, and sends a query to Bianca. She tags it for a textual response, rather than a verbal one.

The response is instantaneous, and reads: _It’ll take a few minutes._

Veronica opens Cheryl’s financial report to pass the time.

——————

The response is subtle, with an envelope flashing green in her right left corner. Betty’s managed to lose in the time it took Veronica to open it and skim over the detailed report.

Her eyes keeps getting drawn over the temperature readings. At the word _‘fluctuating’_ to be precise.

For once she doesn’t like being right. (The amount of times she’s thought this is in the double digits, so really she should give up on this figure of speech. It’s doing her zero favours, and is actually raising the number. Like a jinx.)

——————

That night in their apartment – she still gets a giddy feeling whenever she thinks of it; _their_ apartment – Veronica pretends to suddenly get the urge for some homemade soup. She sends Betty on an errand to order up the rest of their dinner – “Whatever’s fine, Betts. Oh, but definitely with lots of fruit. I’m feeling a craving sneaking up on me,” – while she busies herself with the soup.

Gods and other deities bless her mother for being her nagging self and insisting on filling their fridge and pantry. ( _“You have a cold pantry, mija, and you’re telling me you’re not planning on capitalising? Blasphemy!”_ ) But also the same deities can certainly bless Veronica for accepting her own laziness and impatience with actual cooking that she got one of the quickest stoves she could find. Otherwise this soup would’ve taken _ages_ (read: two hours.)

Now she whips it off the stove just in time for the doorbell.

And for Betty to come storming out of the living room to answer it – wait, had she been in the living room this whole time? Veronica remembers she went there to order their food but that was _45_ minutes ago.

Yeah, okay Betty’s definitely eating two servings of this soup even if Veronica has to tie her to the chair and force feed her. (Don’t test her, she’ll do it. No she doesn’t care how dangerous that could be. Nothing’s as dangerous as Veronica Lodge on a mission.)

——————

Betty offers a token resistance to the second bowl of soup – _“A Lodge secret weapon,”_ Veronica had said at Betty’s curious look. But her appetite wavers at the main course and by dessert, she just pushes the plate filled with small tarts toward Veronica.

“The fruit sated my sweet tooth.” Betty shrugs, resting her cheek on her palm. Her eyes don’t focus on one thing – haven’t during the whole meal. She could call Betty out on the blatant lie – no one has a sweet tooth as insatiable as Betty – but then Betty gives her a small, sweet smile and Veronica doesn’t have the heart to poke.

So Veronica eats her share, and leaves the rest in the fridge for morning. Hoping.

——————

Her hope is dashed even before sunrise, woken by an uncomfortable heat at her back and quick breaths dancing through her hair.

Betty’s sluggish enough that Veronica twists in her grasp and has a hand pressing into her forehead before Betty so much as shifts her arm on Veronica’s waist. Veronica’s fingers burn against Betty’s forehead, and the blonde even grumbles at the loss of contact.

“So, can we safely say you’re sick? ‘Cause you’re sick, B.”

“’M fine.” Betty shoves her nose into her pillow, even as her legs toss the blanket off.

“You’re burning,” Veronica points out. Her hand moves to Betty’s neck, feeling the heat flow down beneath her fingers. Betty shudders as she drags her nails to the back of Betty’s neck, tangling her fingers in damp hair.

“Happens.” Veronica scoffs.

“You ate that hideous concoction of a soup.”

Betty opens one eyes, brow furrowed. “It wasn’t bad.”

_Yes, yes it was. Is. Forever will be._ But Veronica doesn’t say that. Instead, Veronica gives her a comforting look, and plants a quick kiss on her damp temple. Because her girlfriend is sick in… who knows how long, and she’s being a stubborn ass about it. And bickering over the taste of Hermione Lodge’s Devil soup isn’t helping anybody.

“Come on.” She untangles her hand, thumb instinctively running along Betty’s jaw, before she slides her hand down and tugs at Betty’s shirt. “You need to shower and change. I’ll get a new blanket and some actual medicine.”

“I’m fine, Ronnie,” Betty whines. But her arm’s loose around Veronica’s waist, and offers barely there resistance as Veronica slips out of bed.

“Well, true.” Veronica gives Betty an appreciative look. “You’re fine as all the circles of hell. But –” Veronica nudges her shoulder at the light snort, “you’re also sick and stinky.”

“Such compliments, V,” Betty says. Thankfully the woman does get up, but the moment she rises from bed she unceremoniously falls back. She looks as startled as Veronica feels. She manages to straighten herself on her elbows as Veronica rounds the bed. She’s even warmer under her touch than before.

_Shit._

“Okay,” Betty says at length, hand dancing between apparently two versions of Veronica. “I may not be all right.”

“No shit.”

With a flair for the dramatics that he could only pick up from Veronica, Furball jumps up onto bed and meows loudly at them, disgruntled at being awoken without food.

————————

_“She’s sick? And you got her to stay home?”_

Veronica can’t quite discern which fact baffles Polly more. Frankly last night’s spectacle of dragging Betty out of bed, basically circling her while she got settled in the tub and then pulling a promise to stay at home come morning before sleep and medicine took her – well, it was a wild ride. Veronica’s sure some miracles were involved there.

Though nothing compared to the miracle snoring into her lap, with Veronica absently running her fingers through blonde hair.

“Souls were sold,” Veronica says gravely. If this was a video call, her words wouldn’t sound so dramatic because she’s definitely wearing a big, loving smile. (And also because she keeps staring at Betty sleeping soundly. She’s cute. Don’t judge her, okay.)

_“Nice to hear Furball’s soul goes a long way.”_

Veronica furrows her brows. “Hold up, when have I sold mine?”

_“The restaurant debacle required some soul vending.”_

“And you think I didn’t barter any of your souls?” Veronica pulls a wicked smile, even though Polly can’t see it. “Oh, Pollykins. You should read the fine print on your contract.”


End file.
